


One Night in October

by Elialys



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Family, Family Feels, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One cold night, some cravings, a drink, and a photo album. Post 4x22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in October

* * *

" _Are you kidding? That's not a proper ending. Don't you know? All good stories start with_ once upon a time _, and they end with_ happily ever after _. You don't know how to tell stories, Uncle Walter. I'll tell you how the story ends."_

* * *

This house was _loud_.

It was all Olivia could think about every time she made her way to the bathroom, every step she took resulting in low yet obnoxious creaks. In the otherwise silent house, they sounded even worse.

She couldn't remember the floor being that sensitive to human weight before, but to be perfectly honest, she had never been that heavy before either. To someone like her, who had always prided herself on her ability to be subtle and almost undetectable, a quality that had earned her high scores for "stealth" at the Academy, the fact that she couldn't go from one place to the other without sounding like a moving war tank was somewhat upsetting.

She had to pee, though, and she had to do it often, noisy floor or not, which had led to her third trip of the night to the upstairs bathroom. As she left the room again, shivering from the cold, yet not looking forward to trying to find another comfortable position in their bed, she noticed the dim light coming from downstairs. She shouldn't have paid it much attention –it wasn't that unusual, but it immediately shifted her thoughts from the bedroom to the kitchen, making her aware of how hungry she suddenly felt. Hungry wasn't even the word for it.

She…craved.

Knowing there was no point in fighting _that_ battle, she made her way down the stairs, at a ridiculously slow pace, each step protesting noisily under her weight, which made her feel like the whole house had decided to turn against her. She almost huffed in frustration when that simple, silly thought caused her eyes to prickle.

She honestly would not have been able to pick what she disliked the most about her condition, the physical discomfort she was constantly in, or this hormonal bullshit. All she was sure of was that she needed to put something preferably fattening in her mouth, as a reward for being so pitiable.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes scanned the living room, barely surprised to find the pull-out couch empty. It was ruffled, proof that its occupant had been on it recently, but most definitely empty. If he wasn't up reading, the only other place he could possibly be was in the-

"Olivia!"

She jumped, genuinely startled by Walter's voice, both her hands instinctively coming down to her bulging stomach, breathing out a swear word. As she should have expected from the start, the old man was standing in the kitchen's doorway; she was instantly glad it wasn't Tuesday.

"I'm sorry dear," he said, more quietly. "I did not mean to startle you."

"It's fine," she shook her head with a pinched smile. Her heart was still pounding furiously, and she was not surprised in the least when another set of kicks soon joined the party inside her abdomen, "You would think I'd be used to it by now."

Walter just had a way of springing on you.

"It's quite a natural reaction, actually," he said, once again cheerful, "Your instincts will remain heightened until the end of your pregnancy, and possibly beyond. If you'd had your gun handy, I'd probably be dead."

He accompanied his 'joking' comment with a gesture and a swooping sound, hitting his forehead with two of his fingers, mimicking being shot in the head.

She frowned at him, her smile having turned into a grimace now, allowing him to take the few seconds he needed to remember what had happened, a little over six months ago.

Sure enough, his bright smile soon faltered, his face falling, and he averted his eyes in something close to shame. "Well, uhm, I guess it might have been funnier if I hadn't shot you in the head myself."

She offered him another tight smile, even though she wasn't upset, not really. "These things happen," she said, in a sarcastic tone that was entirely Peter's.

There was no doubt in her mind that, had he been here to witness this exchange, Peter would never have made that last remark. She didn't find the fact that she had been shot by the man standing in front of her remotely amusing, but unlike Peter, she was able let this roll off her, discarding it as one of Walter's many comments, the kind he often blurted out without thinking them through first.

Peter was doing much better, in terms of dealing with what had happened to her on that boat, but she could just picture the grim look he would be giving his father right now.

Thankfully, he was currently sound asleep upstairs, probably still unaware of her absence from the bed. Given how she now needed to sleep with five pillows surrounding and supporting her bloating body in order to find a remotely comfortable sleeping position, he had been forced to move to the opposite edge of the bed, and to stay there.

Unless she was feeling particularly horny, which happened rather regularly, too.

"Are you having trouble sleeping?" Olivia asked Walter, a bit too brightly, swiftly pushing those particular thoughts out of her mind, unwilling to trigger yet another mood swing.

She was feeling way too put off by her own body to even tolerate horniness at the moment. She also wanted to make it clear she wasn't upset about what he had said.

Walter offered her a smile, obviously relieved. "It would appear I'm not the only one."

She grimaced again. "I doubt your inability to sleep through the night has anything to do with incontinence, though."

"Don't be so sure," he replied, in such a tone that she couldn't help but chuckle. His smile dimmed again, though not completely. "I think the presence of so many boxes around my sleeping area is slightly disturbing."

She looked at the piles of boxes that were indeed filling most of the space in the living room. All of her and Peter's items, _finally_ ready to be moved to their house in the next couple of days.

"They'll be gone soon," she said, her voice softer, aware that this thought might not completely soothe him either. Once they moved out, he would be alone, here. They had offered him a room in their new place, several times, but he systematically refused.

Now feeling the return of a familiar ache, one of her hands left her round stomach and went to her back, arching and applying pressure.

"Oh, you shouldn't stay on your feet, come and sit in the kitchen," he exclaimed, once again apparently thrilled. "I was actually hoping you might come down, I have something for you! Middle of the night cravings, yes?"

"She's already got me wrapped around her finger," Olivia sighed, though she patted her quivering stomach affectionately, before starting off towards the kitchen, her walk more than a little wobbly.

At thirty-six weeks pregnant, that was all she could do, really. Wobble around. Make floors crack. Pee.

Some women truly embraced pregnancy and rejoiced at the miracle of life happening inside of them. While she awaited her daughter's birth with terrified exhilaration, she was most definitely looking forwards to a life freed of hemorrhoids again.

And to a life full of coffee. How she missed her coffee.

"Here, have a seat," Walter offered, pulling one of the chairs away from the table.

Once again, she did not miss the way the chair squeaked as if in agony when she sat down, and she felt her cheeks burn in frustration, swiftly followed by the typical eyes prickling. But before she could sigh at her own misery, Walter dropped what looked like a rather heavy photo album in front of her, sending a small waft of dust up her nose.

After successfully holding back a sneeze –given her condition, these were _never_ safe, she frowned at the cover, before looking up at Walter.

"Is that…what you had for me?"

"No no," he shook his head, already moving away from the table, almost bouncing with anticipation at the thought of whatever he had in store for her, "this is just to keep you busy while I get it ready. You know how I still haven't finished unpacking some of the boxes I brought from the lab? Well, I guess seeing you and Peter pack everything again has encouraged me to do it. I found this in one of the dustiest boxes. I know it's not entirely accurate, given where Peter comes from, but…well, you'll see."

As he giddily busied himself near the fridge, she gave in to her curiosity, opening the album.

The first picture instantly put a smile on her face, and before long, she was trailing her fingers over the protecting film that had kept the photo almost intact through the years, although the colors had irremediably faded. It was an enlarged picture of a newborn. To her, all babies that young tended to look the same, some definitely prettier than others, but given the circumstances, she knew this wasn't any infant.

"Is that Peter?" She asked anyway, her fingers tracing the contour of his face.

"Yes, that's my boy," Walter confirmed, unable to conceal the sorrowful quiver from his voice. "As you can see, he had his chubby cheeks from the very start."

She chuckled affectionately, "He does look big for a newborn."

"He was almost two weeks overdue, like most Bishop babies are. I'm sure Peter already told you about that."

 _This_ made her look up at him, whose back was still turned on her, making it impossible for her to see what he was doing at the counter. "He did not, actually," she answered with a disgruntled scowl.

"Ah well," Walter cheerfully went on, not even turning around. "You have strong, wide hips, and as long as you apply some oil every day on your perin-"

"Walter," she immediately stopped him. "My perineum is still off limits."

Ever since she had gotten pregnant, she'd had received her fair share of comments from Walter that had been borderline inappropriate. The number of comments that had been beyond inappropriate was even greater.

Since they were currently all living together in the Bishop's old house until she and Peter moved out, the opportunities for embarrassing discussions had been endless.

"A shame," Walter sighed. "In any case, Peter's mother was particularly fond of photographs, and she kept most of them in that album. It was found next to her body."

There was more than one way Walter could spring on you. His ability to go from discussing something sweet to a much graver topic was one of them.

Olivia, who had barely started looking at the next pages, froze in her seat. It so happened that one of the pictures was of a very young Peter, no more than a couple of months old, in his mother's arms.

Elizabeth.

Understandably shaken by Walter's last comment regarding his wife, and how she had taken this album with her on the day she had ended her life, Olivia stared at the woman's face. It probably was only the second time she saw a picture of her, or even heard of her. None of the Bishop Boys had ever been keen on talking about her, in any of the timelines she had experienced.

Peter rarely mentioned his mother, Olivia rarely mentioned hers. Their reasons were different, but not devoid of similarities either, like many aspects of their lives.

Elizabeth had been a beautiful woman. Physically, Peter looked a lot more like his father, though he would surely deny it fervently if she ever brought it up, but she also recognized a few of his traits in the young woman's face. She found herself wondering if her own daughter would have some of these fine features.

Looking at this simple photograph, at the way she held her baby against her and smiled softly at the camera, Olivia knew she had been as kind and caring as she had always imagined her to be. It wasn't a deduction she had made from what she knew of her –again, very little, more from loving the son she had raised, in some version of this world. Elizabeth was the one who had planted that seed in his heart, the roots of his kindness and love.

Olivia felt an intense knot in her chest, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the child she carried in there. She wished he was in the room with her, now, longing for his presence, still shaken by the way the mood had dramatically shifted.

But true to himself, Walter's gloom did not last long. Just when she was considering going back upstairs before it got worse, he was back at the table, pushing the album slightly aside so he could put in front of her a large glass filled with…

"Root beer float!" she couldn't help but exclaim, looking up at him with round eyes. She had been craving that damn drink for _days_ now, and judging by his satisfied grin, he had known it. "How…"

Still smiling from ear to ear, he took the seat opposite hers, with his own serving of root beer. "I overheard you talking on the phone with your sister a few days ago. At least, I assumed it was your sister." Before she could confirm that she had indeed been complaining about all the weird cravings she'd been having to Rachel, he went on. "I decided to make you a homemade batch. It took me a few days, but it's ready now, and absolutely safe to drink in your condition."

Feeling more delighted than she probably would have been, hadn't she been nearly nine months pregnant and as emotionally unstable as someone could possibly get, she reached for her straw, ready to drink the whole thing in one go, but he hurriedly stopped her. "Don't forget what I told you the last time, you need to _stab_ the ice cream with the straw first, and push it all the way to the bottom."

She did just that, offering him a confused look as he took his first gulp of the drink. "The last time? We never had root beer floats together. Actually, I don't think I've had it since middle school." Which had made this particular craving of hers even more puzzling.

Walter shook his head, as if suddenly remembering something, his lips somehow already covered with foam. "Of course you wouldn't remember. It happened before Peter rematerialized, before the memory shift."

Even though his tone remained warm, and there was no sign of the hurt or bitterness she had received from others, principally Lincoln Lee before his departure, as well as from Nina, still to this day, it made no difference. She felt that same, uneasy pang she always felt whenever she was made aware of all these things she couldn't remember. It was a feeling she felt most strongly when she was in company of her sister, watching a nephew she knew nothing about.

Clearly, her unease wasn't shared by Walter, who had gone back to drinking his root beer, eyes closed in pure ecstasy. She took a long sip from her own drink, though she couldn't truly enjoy its rich taste, as she attempted to collect her thoughts –and emotions.

Finally, after a long minute of silent drinking, she had to ask him. "Was our relationship…different? Before the shift, I mean."

He thought about it for a few moments, before answering. "I supposed it was. Nothing drastic, of course, but before Peter entered our lives, my mental state was, well, much worse than it is now. As you know, I lived in the lab, but I also categorically refused to _leave_ it. The only real human contact I had was with Agent Farnsworth, and you. After three years, even though I knew it wasn't reciprocal and that this relationship was purely professional, you had become the closest thing to family I had had in decades."

Her throat had constricted again, more affected by his honesty than she expected.

Through the years, universes and timelines, her feelings for Walter Bishop had gone from one extreme to the other, taking into account the Cortexiphan trials, having an alternate who had brainwashed her and attempted to kill her on a few occasions, not to mention how _this_ Walter had actually successfully killed her for a couple of minutes, earlier this year.

But her history with Walter couldn't possibly be summed up to the bad memories. As crazy as he may be sometimes, he was a constant in her life, someone who believed in her, who thought her to be extraordinary beyond her abilities. He was someone who was up in the middle of the night to make her root beer float, and who had cried honest tears for thirty minutes straight the first time they had shown him a sonogram picture of his granddaughter.

No matter what had happened, what might still happen, Walter would always be part of the unit.

She wanted to convey some of these feelings to him in answer to his admission, but as always, she was struggling under emotional pressure. Before she could form an adequate response, he began talking again, lost in his memories.

"We talked about her, that night we drank root beer together. My Elizabeth. About how she killed herself after Peter's death."

Once more taken by surprise, Olivia started to wonder if she would actually be able to keep the drink down, her stomach twisting again, the prickles in her eyes agonizing, now. She forced herself to breathe deeply.

"What happened to her, where you and Peter come from?" Walter asked, refocusing on her at last.

But she couldn't hold his gaze, not flustered as she currently felt. She lowered her eyes, a move that didn't help either, since they fell back upon the album, on that picture of a young Peter in his mother's arms.

"She…died, after Peter moved to Europe," she eventually answered as steadily as possible, trying to be swift when she wiped the corner of her eye with a knuckle, her hand going back to her stomach. "Mmm, car crash, I think."

That was a lie, of course. Elizabeth Bishop had died in a car indeed, but it had happened in her garage, not on the road.

But when she briefly looked up, she knew Walter understood.

"That's alright," he said, quietly. "From what I understand, after this other me succeeded in bringing Peter over here and saving his life, I, or he, forced her to lie to him about his origins, yes?" Olivia nodded shortly, unable to speak. The look on Walter's face, one of deep dejection and regrets, made the ache in her chest barely bearable. "The guilt of it...I can only imagine it."

She now honestly wished she had never come downstairs in the first place; what good could possibly come from the grim discussion they were having? There was no way she could leave the room and go back to bed, though. Sleep be damn, she simply needed the warmth of Peter's body, the comfort of his arms. Not being able to leave the table had nothing to do with tact, she could easily have excused herself; she simply wasn't sure her legs would support her, right now.

Walter eventually resumed his musings. "I saw her again, you know." She looked back up at him, unable not to. "It wasn't _her_ of course. She came from the other side, to convince me to help Peter go home, back when I still stubbornly refused to listen to him. She was more beautiful than I remembered her being. I was a fool to ever forget. And when all I deserved to receive from her was blame and hatred, for taking her son away and letting him drown in that lake, she gave me what God refused me. She offered me forgiveness. She was my white tulip."

Olivia had no way of understanding these words, nor their meaning, but she was perceptive enough to sense their significance.

There was no more looking away now, their eyes firmly locked. "Peter is blessed to have you," Walter said, solemnly. "Men of our intellect and hubris...We need women like you, and Elizabeth."

Slowly, very slowly, her lips curled up in sad, sympathetic smile. "That may be so," she said quietly. "But these things go both ways, Walter."

There was a similar smile on his lips, almost resigned. They understood each other, always had, no matter the version, or his intentions.

It was partly why she had never blamed Walter for doing what he had done on the boat, why she had not shown a hint of resentment, unlike Peter. She had been affected by it, of course, still had nightmares about it, fearing for their future, for her daughter's life, more than for her own. But when it came to the act in itself, there was only understanding.

Walter had done what needed to be done, to save both worlds. She had been called a Protector, once, and there was no denying it.

But things _were_ different, now, and at that instant, the movements within her womb made her profoundly aware of it.

She averted her eyes at last, both her hands on her stomach, focusing all of her thoughts on the feel of her child. Walter claimed that Peter needed her to balance the weight of his intellect and hubris; about that, he might wrong. They balanced and needed each other, that was a fact, but this was not how she saw Peter and their dynamic.

From the moment he had entered her life, albeit reluctantly, he had made sure she knew someone cared about her, that she was _not_ expendable, in ways that had nothing to do with her unique abilities. Time and time again, he had forced her to take _herself_ into account, when she would usually put everyone and everything else first, at her own detriment.

Peter kept her tethered and aware, aware that she was more than her job, more than the responsibilities crushing her shoulders, the ones she had been given against her will, and the ones she had chosen to fight for.

She wasn't a mere soldier. She was Olivia, too. She was a woman, a woman in love, and a mother to be.

And like Walter had once said to her niece, in a tale from a distant time, Peter's role in this was unmistakable.

In this story they were all a part of, in which Walter was the brain and Olivia was the hand, Peter would always be the heart.

* * *

"… _and Peter looked inside Walter's eyes and realized there was still goodness inside him. So Peter took his special heart, and with all his might, he split it in two. And the heart was so magical that it still worked."_

* * *

As Peter made his way out of the bedroom and through the hall, the floor creaking under his feet, a violent shiver shook his body.

He had put a shirt on before leaving the room, but a thin shirt and a pair of boxers was probably not the best attire for this cold October night. On top of being _loud_ , this house was badly insulated, one of the many reasons why they had decided not to move here permanently, and to buy their own place instead.

This process had turned out to be more complicated than any of them had anticipated. For one thing, finding a house had not been as easy as circling a picture in the journal; unfortunately, they had realized that _after_ Olivia's apartment had sold, only a ridiculous four days after she had put it on the market. As a result, they'd had to move out of her place a lot earlier than expected. Taking residence into his old house until they found their future home had been their only option.

Peter hadn't been so thrilled about it.

His first couple of months in this timeline had been some of the hardest weeks of his life. Being in this house had made him all too aware of his oppressing loneliness, when no one around him remembered him, let alone trusted him. Like everything else in this place, the house had held too many memories of things –and people- he thought he would never get back.

After moving back here with Olivia, along with the majority of her life in boxes, the house had felt welcoming again, to the point of being cozy, yet another proof that 'home is where the heart is'. Living here soon became so similar to the way things were before he had stepped into the Machine, that it wasn't long before he began missing Walter's presence in the house with them.

This had been a fairly encouraging realization in itself, given how precarious things have been between the two of them at the time. The first few weeks following the Incident on the boat had been…trying, to say the least. Peter had needed time to process what had happened and heal.

But as it had done several times before, their relationship had survived the hurtle and moved passed it. The more time he spent with Walter, the more Peter forgot this man wasn't the same man he had grown up with, the one he had hated with a passion, until he had grown to care for him deeply.

It was nothing like comparing Walter and Walternate. Despite the differences and missing memories, these two men were almost one and the same. For all intents and purposes, this man _was_ his father.

_You have been home all along._

Being in this house with Olivia but without Walter had felt wrong. And when he had eventually discussed it with her, she was the one who suggested asking Walter to move in with them, something he was planning on bringing up himself.

" _You're gonna have to get used to getting up in the middle of the night again, anyway, so this will be good practice,"_ she had said, half-jokingly.

Funnily enough, being up at an ungodly hour was exactly what he was doing right now, although Walter had nothing to do with it. Well, not directly.

He couldn't tell what had roused him from sleep, but the moment he had opened his eyes, his thoughts had been on Olivia. He had quickly realized she wasn't in bed anymore, but hadn't thought much of it, assuming she was using the bathroom, something she did often nowadays. After a while, though, he had left their bed altogether, as it had become obvious she was not coming back.

He had gone a long way in the past six months, but he couldn't help getting _slightly_ paranoid about her whereabouts ever since he had watched her die. He guessed that was alright, as long as he didn't voice his worries too often; there wasn't much that annoyed Olivia more than feeling coddled.

He couldn't be blamed, though. She was doubly precious and coddling-worthy these days.

And so he made his way downstairs, rubbing his arms, hoping for some warmth; he heard their voices long before they came into sight. They were not talking loudly enough for him to hear what they were saying, though, and by the time he reached the kitchen, they had fallen silent again.

He saw her before she saw him, if only by a second.

There were shadows under her eyes, which looked redder than usual, but it could simply be caused by those allergies she'd been plagued with this month. She had been looking tired, these past couple of weeks, the third trimester definitely taking its toll on her; no matter how resistant she had been in the past, she was not immune to the side effects of having a human being growing inside of her for the better part of year.

For a couple of months, she _had_ been positively glowing and full of insane energy. The second trimester had banned 'morning' sickness from her metabolism at last, all the while pumping her up with hormones of all sorts, not to mention her growing bump, which hadn't been big enough at the time to get in her way, but big enough to make her look stunningly pregnant. Those days were long gone.

Because their baby kept on growing, and there only was so much energy she could spare, while her body kept on changing, bringing all kind of discomfort and aches along the way. To him, she looked more stunning than ever, though he was aware she did not share this opinion.

She sensed his presence almost right away, turning her head towards him, and when their eyes met, she offered him a smile. She seemed almost relieved to see him.

He barely glanced at Walter, but it was enough for him to notice the somber look on his face, matching Olivia's demeanor. It was obvious they hadn't been discussing food –one of their favorite topics lately.

"Hey," he said quietly, walking to where she sat, bringing a hand to her face. He leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead.

She immediately responded to his touch, one of her hands going up to his nape; her grip was soft, but firmer than he anticipated, as if she was trying to bring him closer, keep him there longer. He obliged, his lips lingering on her skin, feeling her sink into his palm. When he eventually pulled away, her eyes were definitely too bright. This could be explained by allergies, indeed, but the hint of sadness in her gaze and smile couldn't. That was something he hadn't seen in a while.

He tilted his head, frowning slightly, his eyes searching hers as his thumb stroked her cheek. "You okay?"

Her smile widened a little. It wasn't much, but she looked more sincere. "I'm fine," she assured him softly, squeezing his forearm.

It was hardly comforting, since ' _I'm_ _fine'_ was her answer to absolutely every inquiry regarding her physical or emotional state.

He believed her, though, instinctively knowing she was telling the truth _. S_ he was obviously feeling overwhelmed by something, but if there had been anything really wrong, she would have let him know. Considering the wacky state of her hormones, her worst enemies these days, it could have been caused by anything.

The fact that she hadn't been alone in the room couldn't be ignored any longer either, nor that the man in question was well known for his disastrous lack of tack on occasions. He moved his eyes to Walter, who still remained unusually grave, though he did offer Peter a small, saddened smile. He had seen a similar look on his face many times before, but like Olivia, it hadn't happened in a while.

"I hope you weren't telling her another one of your creepy pregnancy stories," he said, trying to dissipate the tension. It also happened to be a valid concern of his, since it had happened before.

Olivia replied for him. "Depends if you consider telling me Bishop babies are usually born two weeks overdue a creepy story. From my point of view, it might be." He looked back down at Olivia, who now seemed mildly disappointed in him, though there was a smile in her eyes. "You do realize I would have become aware of it eventually, right?"

Deciding to keep the tone as light as possible, he smiled, a bit cheekily. "That's what I figured."

She let out a tired chuckle, closing her eyes, one of her hands moving over her extended stomach. He knew she didn't find the thought of two extra weeks in this condition amusing at all. She was being beaten down by her own body, with no other choice but to cave to it. Unlike any other time when she had been in physical distress, she couldn't simply push through the pain and discomfort, because her well-being wasn't the only one at stake.

She did not like being pregnant, a fact she didn't need to say out loud for him to be aware of it. She rarely complained about it, but all he had to do was look at her. She did not enjoy this, but she would suck it up until the very last minute, for their child, even if that last minute happened two weeks after her official due date, barely a month from now.

Peter leaned down to press another kiss to the side of her head, trying to convey how much he admired her without a single word, and loving the way she always sank into his touch. Loving her, period.

When he reopened his eyes, they fell on the items placed in front of her, that he had failed to notice until now. He was going to mention the peculiar drink, but his attention was drawn to the photo album. He didn't need to be told who was on the pictures.

His reaction was subtle, his body tensing briefly, but it was enough for her to know what he was looking at, soon following his gaze.

"It's you," she said softly, one of arms slipping around his waist, pressing her cheek to his side while her other hand trailed over a picture of 'him' as an infant.

_It's you, and me, and the little baby that we're gonna have._

The voice, _her_ voice, escaped his mind as quickly as it had entered it, the ephemeral echo gone before he could fully take it in. She had never said these words to him, and yet, he didn't imagine them either.

He couldn't explain why it happened, sometimes, these odd yet intense déjà-vus from a time or timeline he couldn't quite remember.

All he knew for sure was that whenever it happened, always unexpectedly, it made him acutely aware of her presence, of her touch and of her scent; it left him with an inexplicable longing for her, as if she wasn't right here, next to him.

But she was here. He felt her arm around his waist, her head against his ribs, and when he briefly buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, slowly, she filled up his lungs. She was here, and so was that little baby that they _were_ going to have.

He gently pulled away from her, only briefly so he could grab one of the chairs, placing it next to hers and finally sitting down by her side, coming to her level. Her arm was swift to find its way back around him, as was his hand, splaying on her stomach, something he couldn't help doing constantly lately. She didn't seem to mind, though, soon feeling her breath on his skin, followed by her lips. She pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, before simply nestling her face against his neck, almost sleepily; his body warming up at last, her drowsiness was contagious.

For a few seconds, they were fully focused on one another, until Walter made his presence at the table definitely known again, by taking in a loud and wobbly breath that made them both look his way.

To say that he looked _moved_ would have been an understatement. Peter's confusion swiftly returned, though he did his best to mask it. He had been around Walter long enough to know he was reacting to their display of affection, but considering how often it happened when they were in the privacy of this house, the old man had no reason to react to it this strongly tonight.

And then, he spoke.

"That's one of the things she told me, you know," Walter said, his voice barely steadier than his smile, tears almost spilling from his eyes. "That's how she convinced me to help you. She said that by having you back, even if you weren't our Peter, it gave us the opportunity to see a version of him fall in love and have babies."

On those words, he grabbed his drink with a dangerously shaky hand, slurping loudly, obviously trying to contain his emotions. Unable to hide his confusion any longer, Peter frowned, turning to Olivia, hoping for an explanation.

"We've been talking about Elizabeth," she said simply. She tried to keep her tone casual, but the strain in her voice made it clear the discussion hadn't been a cheerful one. It did explain both their behaviors, though.

Not sure what he could say, or if he would be able to say anything at all, Peter simply forced himself to smile, nodding shortly, before quickly averting his eyes, looking down at the pictures. Olivia understood and respected his silence, not saying anything else either, simply tightening her embrace, lips on his shoulder.

As a personal rule, he tried not to think about his mother if he could help it, simply because doing so was always painful. He couldn't remember when he had last looked at a picture of her willingly until tonight.

Of course, his feelings on the matter had become even more complicated in the past couple of years, since he had met not one, but _two_ completely different versions of her, even though the woman who had raised him for the better part of his life had been dead for over a decade.

The Elizabeth he was staring at right now was yet another version of her, holding in her arms another version of him.

At times, he found himself wondering how he hadn't gone mad from all this yet. Normal, ordinary people would surely have caved by now. He and Olivia both, they knew too much, had been through too much.

Maybe that's how they stayed sane. They balanced each other in their peculiarity.

Right now, he felt a familiar sadness, looking at this woman and her child, his heart heavy with the knowledge that none of them was alive anymore.

"She was a wonderful woman, Elizabeth," Walter said, solemnly, repeating words he had told Peter months ago.

_She was wonderful, but she wasn't strong. In fact, she was very, very sad._

He remembered saying this to his mother, his biological mother; she had looked very sad herself, that day, worn out by years spent knowing where he had been taken, but having no way of reaching him.

He thought of another Elizabeth, then, the one he had met almost a year ago.

"She still is," he said, in reply to Walter's statement.

 _This_ Elizabeth had been strong. And yet, she had lost her boy, too, had known he had drown the night Walter had tried to save him. Unlike the woman in the picture who had been unable to live with her grief, this Elizabeth had turned her pain into strength.

He thought about their brief meeting, about what the feel of her hand on his face and the way she had looked at him had done for him. After weeks of being treated like a stranger by the people he loved the most, she had treated him, a stranger, like her son.

It was the first time he had ever felt home in this timeline.

"I wish I could have met her."

His eyes finally moved away from the picture at Olivia's words, looking back at her; her gaze was still down, staring at his mother.

One of her hands had come to rest on his over her stomach a while ago now, and he turned his palm over, squeezing her fingers in his. "Maybe you will," he said softly. She turned her head, meeting his eyes with a frown. He shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe we'll reopen the Bridge, someday, and you'll get to meet her."

His palm back on her stomach, rubbing affectionately, the hidden meaning in his words were loud and clear.

 _Maybe someday, Elizabeth will get to meet_ her _._

Olivia's face relaxed, offering him her most sincere smile of the night, interlacing their fingers again. She understood him, and probably shared his wish, but understandably so, she decided to ease the heavy air.

"We'll reopen the Bridge, uh?" she asked, sounding both amused and endeared by the idea. The probability of it ever happening was close to zero –which actually didn't mean much, in their lives.

"Absolutely," he replied in a similar tone, relieved to be moving on to less upsetting topics. "By then, your alternate and Lincoln will have had two or three babies of their own. Our kids and their kids can have playdates, while we try and explain everybody how they're related but not really."

She chuckled at that, shaking her head with a grimace. " _Kid_ , Peter," she said with emphasis. "I know what you're trying to do, and I'll say it again, this 'little tribe of Bishops' of yours is never going to happen, unless you find a way to carry the other ones yourself."

Predictably enough, someone was not about to let this go unnoticed.

"As a matter of fact-" Walter started, but Peter was swift to stop him.

"She was joking, Walter," he said with a pointed look, causing his father to look mildly disappointed, and Olivia let out a small snort.

When he looked back at her, there was a sly look on her face.

"Chicken."

"Your hips are wider than mine, your body is definitely more suited for childbearing."

Her next chuckle sounded more like a groan, briefly resting her forehead on his shoulder. "My body is not even mine anymore. It belongs to your daughter," she sighed in defeat.

He brought his lips near her ear. "She's yours, too," he whispered, lovingly. "All I'm saying is that we'll still have that extra room in the house."

She knew he was only teasing her; they had talked about 'kids', a discussion that had become inevitable once she had gotten pregnant, and he respected her wish not to have more than one. There was no harm in trying, though.

At the mention of the extra room, she raised her head again, and the look she gave him was clear enough. She briefly tilted her head towards Walter, who seemed perfectly happy simply sitting there, watching them banter. Understanding what she meant, Peter turned to look at his father.

"You know, it's not too late for you to reconsider," he said. "That extra room is still yours, if you want it."

Walter smiled, but Peter knew what he was going to say, before he even started shaking his head slowly. "I'll be fine here," he said humbly. "The next few months are going to be chaotic enough as it is, and you two are going to need all the space and intimacy you can get. Your family comes first."

Peter had no intention of letting this last comment go. No matter what had happened, through the years or the past six months alone, he couldn't let his father think he didn't deserve a place in their home.

But to his surprise, Olivia was the first to speak.

"You _are_ family, Walter."

Her voice had been soft but decisive, and from her intonation and the look the two of them shared, Peter realized he had missed more from their conversation than he originally thought.

Given these two's history, the implications behind her words were particularly meaningful. Walter was aware of that, too, understandably too overwhelmed to be able to respond anything, looking once again at the verge of tears. He sighed loudly, nodding a few times, before grabbing his glass, finding solace in the sweetness of his drink.

The intensity of the moment would pass soon enough, like these sort of things always did; but while it lasted, Peter let it spread through him, let it warm him up from the inside out, feeling fleetingly at peace with everything that had happened, good and bad, that had led him to be right here, with them. All three of them.

As if on cue, he felt their daughter move beneath his palm, filling him with endless wonder.

Soon, he was mirroring Olivia's earlier move, bringing his face to her neck, nose pressed against her warm skin. Her fingers left his hand, still protectively splayed over her round stomach, burying them in his hair. She responded to his caress in kind, tenderly, her grip only briefly tightening when he brought his lips higher again, to murmur his very favorite words into her ear.

 _You're_ my _family._

* * *

" _And together, they made goodness, and lived_ happily ever after _._

_The End."_

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Fringe's first anniversary, on January 18th. I wanted to honor my favorite aspect of the show, and by the end of it, I obviously wasn't remotely subtle about it. Oh well.


End file.
